As The World Goes Round
by E J Mulford
Summary: John finds him in the back garden one chilly winter afternoon at the age of three. He scoops up a handful of snow in his gloved palms and splats it onto the highly disfigured snowman he's building, and when he turns to reach for more, that's when he sees it: a single curl of dark, silky hair, barely as big as his tiny pinky finger.


Written as part of the JohnlockGifts exchange for the lovely type_40_consulting_detective, over on AO3!

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**As The World Goes Round**

Sherlock x John

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_January_

John finds him in the back garden one chilly winter afternoon at the age of three. He scoops up a handful of snow in his gloved palms and splats it onto the highly disfigured snowman he's building, and when he turns to reach for more, that's when he sees it: a single curl of dark, silky hair, barely as big as his tiny pinky finger. John regards it carefully for a moment. Then he goes back to the snowman.

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_February_

The following year, John wakes one morning to the sound of crying. A quiet, frightened wail that travels in through his open bedroom window and makes his heart skip a beat. He pulls on socks and slips feet into shoes, creeps past the bedrooms of his parents and sister, tiptoes down the stairs. He has to stand on a chair to reach his coat, and then he's turning the key in the kitchen door, and he's out into the garden. It's still early; birds are only just beginning to stir, and the pinkish light of dawn is still creeping across the horizon. John zips his coat up against the chill and follows the sound of the crying to the far end of the garden. He pushes aside the foxgloves and forget-me-nots that have sprouted in the past year, and there, in the flowerbed is a wild tuft of inky black curls.

The hair is attached to a little head, and the head to a little chest with two little arms and even littler fingers. The half-baby ceases wailing immediately, blinking big, silvery blue eyes up at John, a few final tears rolling down its chubby cheeks. John's eyes flicker downwards. The lower half of the baby's body disappears into the soil, completely hidden from view. John stares down at it. "I've never met a real Guardian before," he says, voice hushed with wonder. Biting his lip in thought, John thinks back to his first nature lesson in school. Well, it wasn't really called that, exactly, but the scientific word is still too hard for him to pronounce, and it meant looking at animals and plants and people, so a nature lesson it was.

They'd learnt about the people who grew out of the ground like plants, protectors of all life that comes from the earth. They'd learnt about the cultures and tribes who worship the Guardians as deities, and the priests who dedicate their lives to caring for them until they are fully grown. John looks down at the baby in the flowerbed, at its pale, freckled skin and the green, vine-like markings that twist up its arms. He smiles.

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_March_

His name is Sherlock. It's the first word that comes out of his mouth, and it's a name that's surprisingly fitting for the unique little Guardian.

Sherlock loves to read. John started off reading aloud to him, from storybooks and fairytales – but Sherlock soon picked it up himself. Now John brings him a steady supply of non-fiction, huge books on biology and chemistry and true crime that John checks out of the library and leaves in the greenhouse, ready to fetch at a moment's notice.

Sherlock's reading now, John's favourite navy blue scarf wrapped around him like a blanket to keep him warm. John sits cross-legged beside him in the and merely watches.

He's supposed to be at school today. This is his last week of primary school, but he hasn't been attending; inside the house, the roaring voice of his father carries out into the garden, a screaming accusation, a sharp slap that makes John wince. No one has noticed his presence at home.

Sherlock nods his little head vigorously, pulls the scarf tighter around himself. John smiles and reaches out to turn the page for him.

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_April_

It's raining. Heavily.

Fat drops pour down in an impenetrable sheet, pummelling the ground and turning the garden to mud and mush. Thunder clashes and rolls in the thick storm clouds up above, and hidden deep in the flowerbed John sits, coat zipped up to his chin, ten-year-old form shaking lightly beneath the tattered umbrella he holds. He has a leg stretched out on either side of Sherlock, who is wrapped in the scarf again, and who huddles as close to John as his roots will allow. He's ridiculously intelligent for his...well, for his age, though the growing up of Guardians is paced differently to humans. Still, he's extremely clever, and already has learned to understand (and worship) the difference between the logical and the illogical. But it doesn't change the fact that Sherlock is six years old, in human years anyway, and is absolutely terrified of thunder.

John, on the other hand, loves it. It drowns out the sound of his family fighting, of his sister Harry screeching in lurid detail all the things she and her new girlfriend have done together, and his father shooting back that he refuses to have a queer in his house, and his mother begging them to stop, and Harry screaming obscenities at them both and slamming the front door on her way out.

From under the umbrella, Sherlock peers up at the miserable sky. "Precipitation," he notes, matter-of-factly. Sherlock rarely speaks these days, though of course he's more than capable. He has a vocabulary far bigger and more impressive than John's, but seems committed to using it sparingly. Gently, John pats his curls.  
"Well done, Sherlock," he says with slightly forced cheer. And then, in the hope that it'll help cover up the last of the noise coming from the house, he asks, "How many other types of weather can you name?"

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_May_

Sherlock's quiet spell doesn't last for long. He soon proves himself capable of talking non-stop for hours on end, especially when it's about something that interests him: a cold case in Wisconsin, a particular article in the newspaper, one of his many experiments on the world around him. All John's fault, of course. Perhaps if he hadn't brought Sherlock that book on hereditary mental illnesses, the Guardian wouldn't be so fascinated by the idea of curing a schizophrenic squirrel.

When Sherlock's expected growth spurt hits, it's overnight. Literally.

John says goodnight to a boy several years his junior, a boy who would still be in primary school if he were human, and the following morning is met by a young man that could easily pass for John's own age of fifteen. It happens that way with Guardians – they grow slowly for the first few years of their life, and then make the leap from child to adolescent in a matter of hours. It's a sign that they no longer need to be cared for so protectively. From this point on, the rest of their body will begin to develop. Roots will grow and twist to form the bones of hips, thighs, knees, calves, feet; the scattered debris of plant matter will compound to create strong muscle and flesh, and fallen bark from surrounding trees will soften and wrap everything in surprisingly smooth skin. Then, and only then, will he finally be able to leave the ground.

Sherlock looks so different, yet so the same, and John can't help but stare fixedly at him, so awed is he by the Guardian's newfound beauty. Sherlock catches him staring, and raises a condescending eyebrow at him over a copy of _The Independent_. "Really, John?" is all he huffs, in a voice suddenly octaves deeper. John shivers, and looks away.

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_June_

"Explain the basics of the cardiovascular system."  
"I thought we were still on respiration?"  
"Dull. Cardiovascular system, go on."

John flops back against the grass, runs a shaky hand through his hair. "I'm going to fail," he mumbles. "I'm gonna fuck this up _so bad_." It's the end of exam season, and John has just one A-Level left to sit: biology.  
"Nonsense." Sherlock shakes his head as he clutches John's textbook. "I've estimated that you have a ninety-nine point nine percent chance of being one of the top five highest-scoring students in your class."  
"Well, you're wrong."  
"I'm never wrong." Sighing heavily, John looks up at the clear blue sky above them and, not for the first time, seriously begins to reconsider his life choices. Him, a doctor? Please. He's useless, just like his father always said, and he was mad to ever think that he'd be good for something as complicated and important as the field of medicine. He should've stuck to rugby.

"Well?" John's blue eyes flicker over to Sherlock, nose buried in textbook pages. The summer sun is doing wonders for the Guardian: his previously milky skin looks healthier, the lightest of tans setting in. His shoulders and statuesque face are dusted with freckles, particularly those high cheekbones, set beneath eyes of pure silver. The emerald vines that wind sparsely across his skin like veins are glowing, bright and bold, and together all these elements combine to make Sherlock one of the most mesmerising sights John has ever laid eyes upon.

John is no idiot. He's a teenage boy, angst and hormones and secret porn stash and all. He knows an attractive person when he sees one: girls, boys, it doesn't matter to him, not since Harry moved in with Clara and dad walked out and left him here with mum, alone. Blissfully alone, and happy. Lying there in the sun, John can't ignore the sudden dryness of his mouth, the frantic pounding of his heart in his throat, and there is no doubt in his mind that Sherlock is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Sherlock is wrong. John doesn't make the top five.

He makes the top three.

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_July_

Holding up his acceptance letter to the sky, John watches sunshine bleed through the paper and laughs more freely than he has in years. In just a few short months, he and Mike will be studying at St Bart's together, while Greg starts his training at the Met. And after? He could open up his own practice. Or become a surgeon, work under pressure. He's always liked that; he works best that way.

Maybe, just maybe, everything is going to be alright.

Beside him, Sherlock leans back on his elbows, face upturned to the sun. He's been in a funny mood all afternoon, only picking at the food John's mother made for their impromptu picnic: the sandwiches John can understand, but Sherlock's always had a secret sweet tooth, and neither the cinnamon buns nor the fairy cakes have been touched. He hasn't said a word. Not even to comment on the paper's front page triple homicide. Now, he scowls without opening his eyes and says, "I suppose you'll be leaving, then." John looks at him, curiously.  
"What do you mean?"  
"It's not as if you're going to commute to London every day, not when you can room with Mike and some of the other trainees. You'll want your own space so you can come home drunk at four am as often as you like, and then there's the _women_." Sherlock spits the word as if it were poison, something foul and toxic. "I'm not a fool, I've done my research on human copulation and the prevalence of such activities in higher education – tell me John, shall I expect you to bring home a serious girlfriend in the summer, or will all your conquests be purely short-term – ?"

He stops talking abruptly, cut off by a soft mouth against his own. Eyelashes fluttering, a hint of teeth against his bottom lip. When he opens his eyes, John is casting him in shadow, leaning over him and blocking out the sun. The boy is grinning. "Neither," John says, in answer to Sherlock's question.

Sap rushes to his face, and Sherlock flushes a deep green all the way up to the roots of his silky hair, the Guardian equivalent of a blush.

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_August_

John is three days away from completing his training when his mother dies. Sherlock sees it happen, sees her collapse through the kitchen window. Aneurysm. Nothing anyone could have done.

John is devastated. Harry has vanished off the face of the earth and his father is probably dead somewhere, so he has no one now, no one at all.

Sherlock is reminded, harshly, that he doesn't count.

John does not open his own practice.

He enlists, and leaves Sherlock behind for the heat and the danger of Afghanistan without so much as a goodbye.

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_September_

John is gone for so long. Weeks turn into months and months into years and not a single day goes by that Sherlock doesn't think of him, easy grins and jokes and wonderful lips. But there is no call to the mobile John bought him for his eighteenth birthday. No texts. No explanations. No visits from Mike or Gavin, only from Mrs Hudson, Head of the local branch of the Guardian Protection Alliance (GPA). He has no idea who alerted her to his existence. It could have been John's single attempt to make sure Sherlock would be safe during his absence, or maybe the new homeowners had recovered from his biting deductions and called the GPA out of the goodness of their hearts. Either way, Mrs Hudson deigns to drop by regularly with newspapers and baked goods and the occasional piece of knitwear, and that's more than can be said of anyone else. Sherlock likes her well enough.

But still he misses John Watson, more than he ever could have imagined.

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_October_

The man that comes home is not the same John Watson who left. He is older, greyer, stronger beneath the dreadful woollen jumper he wears. Permanent creases have taken hold on his brow, bags under his tired blue eyes, haunted and lost. He's walking with a stick. Limping, though the real damage is to his shoulder.

Sherlock is suddenly breathless at the sight of him, unable to speak. All these years apart, years of questions, of not knowing; it's too much. Too long.

The homeowners are watching curiously from the window.

Glancing down, Sherlock takes note of his own body, and feels more exposed and vulnerable than he has in the past decade. He pulls John's old, tattered scarf tighter around his waist. Thinks of sunshine and summer, of blinding smiles and soft, unexpected kisses. They were younger then, much younger. So very different.

John licks nervously at his bottom lip. "I'm sorry I left you," he murmurs. "I shouldn't have run away from it all like that, I should've stayed – " Sherlock is shaking his head.

"It doesn't matter," he interrupts, and it's only as the words leave his mouth that he realises how true they are. "You're home now," is what he says. _You're safe now_, is what he means. John smiles weakly, looks him up and down in a way that makes Sherlock's stomach do flip-flops and his breath catch.  
"You're all grown up."

His eyes betray his real meaning, and Sherlock's lips curve upwards.

"As are you, John."

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_November_

It's cold out. Freezing actually, but then it is very late – almost midnight. Sherlock isn't sure what the homeowners think about John's presence, or if they even know he's here. But right now, frankly, he just doesn't care.

Up above, the sky explodes in a burst of red and gold and orange sparks; they light up the clouds and fall, trembling, back to earth. The musk of smoke and burning wood is thick on the air. Every few moments another firework goes off, casting a soft, warm glow over the two people sprawled out on the grass. Bundled up in thick coats, hats and scarves, John and Sherlock lie together and watch the bonfire night celebrations overhead. Sherlock is still growing below the knee, so John has tucked a small blanket around him to keep out the chill; the one they lie on his large and quilted, and Sherlock thinks he never wants this night to end. Not with John's arm around him, not with his head on John's chest and John's gloved hands holding onto him tightly. Just one more year and he'll be fully grown, free to do as he pleases.

Free to be with John, always.

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_December_

"Everything okay in there?" A soft rustle, a metallic clink, a muffled curse. "Need a hand?" A low, deep sigh that makes John giggle.  
"Yes," comes Sherlock's reluctant rumble from inside the bedroom. "Please."  
"Come out here, then." John retreats to the warmth and organised chaos of the living room, setting his brandy down on the mantelpiece. They've only been moved in for a few days and there are still mounds of boxes everywhere, still half a ton of brand new chemistry equipment that needs unpacking, but that can wait – no work on Christmas Day, John had been firm about that. Probably not on Boxing Day either, by the time they've made it through two bottles of wine and eaten their body weight in roast dinner, downstairs with Mrs Hudson.

The bedroom door creaks open, and John folds his arms and smiles and waits.

Sherlock approaches. He looks past John at his armchair, a pastel green blush rising on his cheeks. "Can't do the buttons," he mumbles, and blushes harder. As an early Christmas gift, John had splashed out and bought Sherlock his first real set of clothes: a gorgeous suit, perfectly tailored to the Guardian's slender frame. Light grey trousers and jacket that shine in the firelight, and a deep emerald button-up shirt that accentuates his pale skin, the vine-like swirls that detail his body. So far, he's managed the trousers, belt, socks and shoes correctly (slip-ons, no laces, but John won't call it cheating). The jacket is okay too. It just seems like the shirt that's giving Sherlock trouble. John had no idea it was possible to fuck up buttons so badly.

One look at Sherlock's face has John biting back his chuckle. Instead, John steps forward into Sherlock's space, much closer than is necessary, and begins to undo the (frankly ridiculous) mess of buttons one-by-one. "How do you like clothes so far?" he asks in a murmur, smiling as he works. Sherlock watches him fixedly through heavy-lidded eyes.  
"They are...unusual," the Guardian answers, slowly. "But not, surprisingly, objectionable." John laughs freely this time, taking the bottom button and slipping it through its (correct) corresponding hole, working his way steadily up Sherlock's chest.  
"You look beautiful," he says, glancing up from under his eyelashes. "Clients will be falling over themselves to come see you."  
"_Us_." Sherlock's breath is soft and sweet. It makes John dizzy in the best of ways. "A detective must have his doctor, or else he's nothing." John leaves the stop two buttons open, fixes the collar. He reaches around Sherlock's waist to tuck the back of the shirt in.  
"I think you'll find it's the doctor who needs his detective the most," he replies, working toward the front.  
"I wouldn't be so sure." Finished, John's hands still on Sherlock's hips. He makes no move to pull them away.  
"Is that so?"

Sherlock smiles, looking up. He eyes the sprig of leaves and berries that John has hung from the ceiling. "Mistletoe." He's been reading up on Christmas traditions of late, including this one. Especially this one. John is grinning.  
"It's plastic," the doctor reassures him. "Not a distant cousin, then?"  
"Nope. No corpses today, I'm afraid."  
"Shame." John laughs at the mock disappointment in Sherlock's eyes, and Sherlock laughs along in that thunderous chuckle of his, and if they spend an inappropriate amount of time kissing after that, well – John certainly won't be complaining.

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**Fin**


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